


All the World's a Race (and the men and women merely runners)

by katjh



Series: Two Sides of the Same Coin [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katjh/pseuds/katjh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world moves at a crawl; a snail's pace. Phil moves like lightning through it. If he could manage slow and steady, he would.</p>
<p>(Further exploration of Phil Coulson's bipolar disorder.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the World's a Race (and the men and women merely runners)

 "It took six years to get it under control," Phil said. There was a hint of anger in his tone that belied how difficult it was for him to keep up his calm facade. But he was home now and there was no need to pretend everything was all right. "I went more than ten years on the same dosage and everything was fine."

Clint nodded sympathetically and pointed out, "You did kind of have a near-death experience, and you thought you lost me. Shit happens, Phil, and sometimes that shit screws up your meds."

Phil groaned and sat down on the couch. "Do you know how six years of cycling from one end of the spectrum to the other is?" He didn't wait for Clint's answer; instead, he jumped up off the couch and started pacing the room. "Right now I'm moving at lightning pace and the whole world is in slow motion. You're _sitting there_ and we could... We could be doing _anything else_. I want to go for a run. I want to repaint the apartment." He gestured wildly as he spoke, his normal speech coming out quickly and excitedly.

"Phil, you do realize you've been up for thirty-three hours," Clint said. He tried not to rub at his eyes. "And so have I."

Phil spun around and fixed Clint with a critical look. "I took a nap," he said truthfully. "It was an hour long. So did you."

"That's not sleep," Clint said. His voice was soft but firm. "I'm going to go to sleep for a solid eight hours. You're welcome to join me. If you don't..." He sighed, shrugged, and slowly leaned back on the couch. "Well, just stay rational, Phil."

Phil frowned. "Of course I'll be rational."

 

Clint slept. Phil went for a jog (five miles), filled out paperwork (eighteen pages), practiced on the range and in the gym (three hours), and sat still for a whole seventeen minutes before he had to get up and do something again.

He was on a higher dose, but it would take weeks to kick in. That was just how the meds worked. He couldn't remember it being this bad since the early days, in his twenties, before he knew it was an illness and back when the army thought he was just an adrenaline-junkie.

 

"Phil, you're scaring the newbies," Natasha whispered. She had been knocked flat on her back twice by Phil when they were sparring, and now Phil was back in his suit and trying to figure out what to do while Clint had his last few hours of sleep. Apparently, prowling the halls of SHIELD was no longer an option.

"I'm sorry," Phil said. He let Natasha lead the way. "I can't sit still."

"I know," said Natasha. There were no secrets between Clint and Natasha, though Clint had at least asked permission to tell Natasha about Phil's mood swings. "Have you eaten recently?"

Phil thought back, then shook his head, and Natasha started towards the cafeteria. They walked briskly but without rushing. It gave them an air of responsibility, of purpose, and it cleared the halls (or perhaps that was just their reputation). When they were close to the cafeteria, Phil finally said, "I don't actually like it, you know."

Natasha glanced at him wordlessly. She was an expert at nonverbal cues and knew he was figuring out how to say what he meant. Sometimes, when he was on an upswing, he'd speak before he thought and end up saying things he didn't really mean. When he had something serious he wanted to talk about, he would go about it slowly, carefully, and any prompting could upset the delicate control he had.

 

They sat down at a table with their trays. Natasha's was piled high despite her size. She needed a lot of food to make up for the calories she burned in training every day. Phil's was also fairly heavy, but he'd also grabbed some food to bring up to Clint later.

"It's just as lonely, in a different way," Phil said, digging into his pudding. "People can't keep up with me so I push them away, or leave them behind. And..." He stirred the chocolate into the vanilla of his pudding cup, watching the colors mix. "I know I do things that are, well, crazy." The word made his mouth twist like it left a bad taste. He remembered when he first got diagnosed and he used the word, asking, "So does this mean I'm crazy?"

His mother, bless her, said, "No, baby, you're not crazy." And the doctor said, "It's bipolar disorder. In no way does this mean you're crazy. You just have stronger moods than other people." And later, when there was new research, the doctor explained, "Most people have, like, a night and day chemical switch in their brains. You've heard of the circadian rhythm? Your clock is wrong. It thinks it's still day for weeks or months, and then switches to night for a long time."

 

"The point is," Phil said, trying to see how much pudding he could get on his spoon, "it's hard on either side of the swing. And it may seem like I'm enjoying it, but I'm not. Or, not entirely."

 

Natasha leaned forward and closed her small, pale hand over Phil's. "Phil, just because your moods – or even mine or Barton's – come from a bottle, it doesn't mean it's not real. You can be happy that you're not sad these days. You can be sad that you're not regulated. And you can eat that pudding before it falls in your lap."

Phil grinned and put the spoon in his mouth just as the pudding started to tremble. "Thank you," he said, mouth full. Natasha smiled and picked up her tray.

 

Phil took the elevator up to the floor where his office was. Triumph one: he did not run up the stairs. He walked calmly down the hall with an apple in one hand and a smuggled danish wrapped in napkins in the other. He unlocked the door to his office. Clint was still asleep on the couch, his boots resting on the floor like he'd only just managed to kick them off before passing out. Phil softly closed the door and put the apple and danish on his desk, then took off his shoes and suit jacket and gently nudged Clint until there was enough room (just barely – the couch wasn't really built for two men to lie side by side on it) for Phil to slot in as the little spoon.

"What's this for?" Clint asked. He was still half-asleep, but he'd shifted so that they could lie more comfortably.

Phil hummed softly. "You stayed up with me."

Clint laughed and pulled Phil closer. "Of course I did," he said.

 

Phil closed his eyes and thought about circadian rhythms. He thought about nighttime and sleep and the fact that right now he was in his office, spooning with Clint Barton, and he'd been up for almost forty hours straight (though if you counted the nap, it was probably more like twenty-seven).

He didn't know how long he thought about sleep, because pretty soon his body figured it out, and he rested, snuggled close to Clint and held safe and soft and slow.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This one was a little more angst/fluff, but I'm always open to prompts. Comment or send me an ask on tumblr (jagrbombed.tumblr.com). Anon is always open.


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